


Sometimes Honesty isn't the Best Policy.

by LeotheLionathefootofOrion



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley isn't doing so well, Cuddling and Snuggling, Dirty weekends that aren't particularly dirty, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Spoilers for the book (obviously), Unrequited Love, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 08:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12032076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeotheLionathefootofOrion/pseuds/LeotheLionathefootofOrion
Summary: Un-betaed and Self edited!Crowley isn't feeling good. Aziraphale tries to help.





	Sometimes Honesty isn't the Best Policy.

There's a North-Norfolk B&B where Crowley and Aziraphale go, as part of the The Arrangement. They've been going there for almost as long as the small building has existed (which is a very long time). And although they're both in denial as to exactly why they go, they don't intend on changing their routine because of a silly little thing like Armageddon.

Said B&B is run by an elderly man named Pat, who is blind and mostly deaf. The bed is lumpy and the breakfast even lumpier, but the place has a certain charm to it. And a sea view, which makes all the difference. Of course, Crowley does nothing but complain about everything from the tea making facilities to the sampler over the bed which reads God Is Here in the middle of a border of violets.

Aziraphale isn't bothered by the (lack of) tea making facilities, because he can miracle up a perfect cup of Earl Grey wherever and whenever. And he's sort of comforted by the sampler. This, naturally makes Crowley snort.

"I'm glad you're comforted by the fact that God Is Here, looking in on your dirty weekend." He says. Aziraphale merely smiles mildly and shakes his head.

"My dear, God is Everywhere. And this is not a dirty weekend."  
And it's not. Well, not really. They do, sometimes, have sex. Which is... nice. Aziraphale thinks it's nice, anyway. He's not entirely sure what Crowley thinks about anything. Crowley has been sort of quiet ever since Armageddon almost happened. Aziraphale vaguely wonders if he's got some kind of demon post traumatic stress disorder.

Aziraphale carefully puts his suitcase (proper leather- heavier than those modern wheely things, but such things don't matter to Aziraphale) on the bed, and glances into the poky bathroom where Crowley is staring (glaring) into the mirror.  
"My eyes haven't been right since Lower Tadfield." He grumbles. "They're still all... glowey. It's very inconvenient."

"Probably stress, my dear." Aziraphale tells him gently. "Come out here and I'll have a look for you."

Crowley does as he's told and perches delicately on the bed. Aziraphale carefully removes his sunglasses for him. Crowley's eyes take a bit of getting used to - normally they have the colour and consistency of a pair of black holes. Now they are glowing a faint yellowish red. Aziraphale gazes into them carefully.

"I can't see anything, but of course that doesn't really mean anything." He rubs Crowley's shoulder gently, a rare gesture of comfort. Crowley leans into his hand almost imperceptibly. He rubs his eyes and slumps, looking dejected.

"I don't know whats the matter with me. I... I can't concentrate on anything." He glances up at Aziraphale with a guarded expression. "Have you heard from your people since you-know-what?" Aziraphale has noticed that Crowley has a serious aversion to saying the word 'Armageddon'.

He nods, slightly confused. "Yes, actually. I filed my monthly report and it came back stamped with approval. Nothing out of the ordinary, you know. What about you?"

Crowley hesitates, then shakes his head. "Not a word. Not a single bloody word." He looks up at Aziraphale. "I don't know what to do. I think I might be in some serious trouble."

"You did directly cause the disintegration of the Duke of Hell." Aziraphale gently. "But perhaps this is all a misunderstanding! Don't you think you ought to pop down and... check, before you get really worried."

Crowley looks up at the angel with an expression of pity. "You really don't know anything about hell, do you? I can't 'pop down' to 'check'. If I am in trouble they'll have nabbed me before you can say 'eternal torture at the hands of true sadists'."

"Surely if they really wanted to... torture you, they would have got you by now?" Aziraphale says, trying his best to reassure. He's pretty sure he's doing a really awful job. Crowley just shakes his head and closes his eyes. He looks seriously depressed and Aziraphale is beginning to be genuinely worried. He sits on the bed next to Crowley and puts his arm around his shoulders. Crowley is actually trembling.

"It's alright." Aziraphale says quietly. "I'm sure there's a rational explanation for all this. You're always telling me about hell's bureaucratic inefficiency. They've probably just made a mistake or something. Try not to worry." Crowley nods minutely and leans closer. He's cold, Aziraphale realises. He's never noticed it before, although they've technically been much more intimate than this.

It's quite surreal, holding a distraught demon in the bedroom of a rundown seaside bed and breakfast. Aziraphale supposes he should be used to this sort of thing by now. His life with Crowley has been a strange mixture of mutual affection and endless trouble. Crowley is the only being in the universe who Aziraphale can really talk to. The only being who he feels... something other than Devine Benevolence for.

Crowley has his eyes closed, now. His eyelashes are quite nice - long. Like a woman's. His face in general is quite nice, actually. Cheek bones, Cupid's bow mouth (ironic, but true), defined chin. He's got his forehead tucked up against Aziraphale's neck and he looks really exhausted. Aziraphale strokes his hair, and it's as soft as a kitten.

"I swear on all that's unholy, if you say a word about this to anyone I'll burn every single one of your precious books. Irreparably." Crowley mumbles, his voice buzzing against Aziraphale's skin. The angel smiles and drops a kiss on the crown of Crowley's head. He doesn't think he's ever seen anything more adorable, in the true sense of the word.

"You're afraid." He says softly. "And that's alright. Everybody gets scared sometimes." Crowley looks as though he wants to argue and his eyes drift open again. The firelike glow has reduced a bit. He reaches up one slim fingered hand and tilts Aziraphale's chin and before Aziraphale knows what's going on he's being kissed.

Crowley can do strange and wonderful things with his tongue. Before Aziraphale can even think Crowley has his mouth dominated. Aziraphale is breathless even though he doesn't need to breathe.

"I'm not afraid." Crowley says, when he's finished plundering every corner of Aziraphale's mouth. Then he pushes the angel onto his back, and kisses him again.  
Aziraphale is no fool. He's knows when he's being distracted. But he doesn't care. He has his hand between Crowley's shoulder blades, stroking and feeling with a kind of desperation he didn't even know he was capable of. Perhaps he's suffering from the after effects of the almost-apocalypse, too.

Kissing is all that happens, and Aziraphale is quite glad. He has to be in a certain mood to have sex with Crowley. There are barriers he has to raise, masks he has to slip into. He has a feeling that he might say or do something he would regret, now. 

Crowley gets tired of kissing after a while. He seems exhausted in general and he curls himself up against Aziraphale's side, catlike. His eyes are open, watchful. Aziraphale wants to tell him to sleep, but he doesn't. He strokes Crowley's hair. Gets lost in those eyes. Thinks about kissing those lips instead.

Because sometimes honesty really isn't the best policy.

**Author's Note:**

> Love a bit of angsty Crowley! Please do leave a comment, feedback is invaluable.


End file.
